


take on me (take me on)

by owilde



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Slice of Life, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 09:17:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: “It didn’t put on a show this morning?” Hank asked, nodding his head towards the coffee machine.“No.” Connor grinned. “I think it likes me.”“Likes you,” Hank echoed. “Okay. Whatever you say.”





	take on me (take me on)

**Author's Note:**

> I miss them, honestly.
> 
> Title taken from a-ha's "Take On Me."

Connor blinked his eyes once, and he was awake.

From what, he wasn’t sure – he didn’t sleep, per se, but he wasn’t conscious, either. He never dreamed, and couldn’t imagine doing so. That was another thing he wasn’t sure how to do. Creating mental images, a narrative of some kind, seemed outlandish by its core. Where did the images come from? Could he picture something that he’d never seen before? Was it possible for someone to simply bring something new to the world, from absolute _nothing?_

Connor didn’t understand, but he would. He’d made it his mission to integrate, and while he could never be what his new, independent mind wanted him to be, he could be close enough. Not human, but not quite an android, either. Something different.

He didn’t mind being different.

The ceiling looked the same as it did every morning, same cracks and odd dots. Connor let his eyes drift to his left, to where Hank was sleeping with his back turned. Connor’s eyes twitched, barely a movement, as he ran a quick analysis.

Hank was still asleep. His heart was still a little bit bad, and his liver had seen better days a long, long time ago. Connor thought he might’ve been having a nightmare – his heartbeat was just a little too fast, and he was sweating slightly – but Connor wouldn’t wake him up.

Usually, Hank’s nightmares involved Cole, in some form or another. Connor had learned that if he woke Hank up from it before he woke naturally, he broke some sort of a connection. Like a snapped wire. The only way Hank could reach his son anymore was through his dreams, and if they veered into nightmares, there was nothing Connor could do about it.

Hank said he didn’t mind, anyhow. That he was used to the nightmares, had been acquainted with them long before he’d ever met Connor, let alone been close enough to sleep next to him. Connor wasn’t sure he believed that it _was_ fine with Hank – Hank liked to sugar coat a lot of things, while being unbelievably honest about others – but he hadn’t argued.

Connor turned around and sat up, the soles of hit feet hitting the warm floor. Central heating was a perk. He’d kicked his socks off in his sleep-like state again; they were tangled next to the bed. Connor left them there and padded over to the window.

The view opened into a suburban dream. It was early, but cars were passing by, shiny Subarus that drove just below the speed limit. Early glimpses of sunlight reflected off their polished surfaces. A man walked by with his dog in tow, while someone else passed him by with a cup of coffee in one hand and the other holding a phone to their ear.

Their make-do garden started just beneath the windowsill, and stretched until the white picket fence. Connor mostly took care of it, but sometimes, when he was elbows deep in dirt, Hank would quietly sidle up to him and crouch down next to him to help. It was a work in progress, but so was most of their house, the black sheep of the neighborhood.

It wasn’t terrible, by no means. They were missing a window that was now boarded up (Hank’s fault), and their house was painted a light purple in a way that their next door neighbor had politely pointed out clashed with the rest of the street’s color schemes (Connor’s fault), and their garden sometimes got a little messed up (Sumo’s fault), but it was still a good house.

It was theirs, and that, Connor figured, made it perfect.

He closed the blinds and made his way to the kitchen.

Their coffee machine, he’d heard, was awful. Hank had used a slightly more colorful vocabulary when ranting about it one morning before work as the machine had once again refused to fulfill its primary function of making coffee.

Connor pressed the ON button, and leaned back to watch as everything whirred to life. Sometime ago, he would’ve wondered what made him all that different from the machine in front of him. He would’ve argue that they were both a collection of parts and some advanced technology, meant to serve a single purpose, and most importantly, be disposable.

Now, Connor thought he was a little above a coffee machine. He was a person. He had opinions, he read the papers, he made coffee for his partner, still fast asleep in their shared bedroom. He paid taxes. He had a social security number.

It was a kaleidoscope of little things that, no matter what colors or shapes they formed or were put into, still painted a picture of Connor as being… alive. And he rather liked being alive.

The coffee machine beeped, announcing its success. Connor poured two cups out of habit, one coffee and one thirium from the cupboard, before leaving them at opposite ends of the kitchen table, and walking slowly through the house and back to their bedroom.

As he cracked the door open, he found Hank staring at him with one squinted eye.

“Hrhm,” he grumbled, which Connor succinctly translated to, “Morning.”

“Good morning,” he said, and stepped inside. “Pleasant dreams?”

Hank turned to bury his head into his pillow. His hair was sticking out, and his other hand brushed the floor. “Fuck off.”

A smile dragged at the corner of Connor’s mouth. He didn’t hold it back. As he drew the blinds open, sunlight spilled into the room, bathing it in a warm glow. He gave one distracted glance to the street outside, where a child was making his way to school, his backpack too big on him.

Connor’s eyes followed him to the edge of the window, before he disappeared from view. He turned back towards Hank, who’d rolled to his back and was now smack in the middle of the bed, his limbs spread out like a starfish. His eyes were closed again.

“Who the fuck decided we should start everything in the morning?” He asked aloud.

“Your circadian rhythm, I presume,” Connor replied. After a small pause, he added, “I made coffee.”

Hank stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. His other sock was gone, and his shirt was sweaty. Connor was aware his morning breath was terrible. None of this seemed to really weigh against Hank in any substantial way in Connor’s mind. He was still the Hank that Connor had irrevocably, irrationally fallen in love with.

“You’re an angel,” Hank mumbled, in his soft voice that meant he was half joking and half honest. Connor loved that voice the best.

“Sure,” he agreed. “An angel that’s about to kick you out of bed unless you do it yourself. We’re supposed to leave in half an hour.”

Hank waved his hand in dismissal. “Yeah, yeah, I fucking know, alright – shit starts at the same time every fucking morning, doesn’t it?”

Connor rolled his eyes somewhat fondly. “Doesn’t stop you from sleeping in, does it?” He countered. Before Hank could reply, he added, “The coffee might get cold.”

Hank yawned again, and blinked his eyes blearily open. He looked at Connor, one brow lifted. “You do know I’ve managed to keep my job for pretty fucking long before you showed up? Depression and all. All by myself.”

“I know,” Connor conceded. “I don’t mean to diminish your efforts. But please – you know I get nervous from being late.”

It was what Hank would’ve referred to as a low-blow, but it worked. Hank sighed, and sat up, stretching until his back gave a loud _crack_. As Connor remained, hovering by the door, he gave him a look. “Jesus, I’m awake, alright? Go drink your thirium.”

Connor lifted his hands in a sign of surrender, and backed out of the room. He sat on his usual chair, staring out the window until Hank joined him. He’d put his clothes on, but hadn’t combed his hair. He’d last shaved a few weeks ago.

Connor sipped his cup of thirium, and watched Hank flop down on his own chair and take his coffee mug like it was the Holy Grail.

“It didn’t put on a show this morning?” He asked, nodding his head towards the coffee machine.

“No.” Connor grinned. “I think it likes me.”

“ _Likes you_ ,” Hank echoed. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Do I believe my coffee machine is sentient enough to form opinions and attachments? No, I actually don’t want to believe that, to be honest with you. It’s fucking creepy.”

Connor wanted to point out that it hadn’t been that long ago when Hank had thought _he_ was creepy, and something of an equivalent to said coffee machine. Instead, he took another sip of thirium. It wasn’t worth the argument to make Hank feel guilty over things he had no control over.

Fifteen minutes later, both their mugs were in the sink, and Connor was sat on the passenger seat of their car, buckling his seat belt. The car’s engine purred to life, and they sped off from their charming little cul-de-sac, and towards the precinct.

Connor glanced back through the rear view mirror right before they rounded the corner.

Their house stood out just perfectly.

“How about an outrageous marble statue on the front yard?” Connor asked, turning to look at Hank.

Hank nodded. “Yeah. Something really fucking ugly. Piss of the neighbors.”

Connor smiled, looking out the window at the houses passing by. The road stretched on underneath them, infinite.

This, he thought, was what it meant to be a person.


End file.
